Kick

* Click here for video of this poem performed *

I’d begun to think

lately

that there’s not much more to life

than drowning,

as if we’re born

knowing the sweetness

of the air

before we’re dropped

into the surf,

where we learn

by days and years

how to accept it,

the process of sinking --

how to quit fighting

and to breathe the water,

breathe it in gulps with relish

to help us forget

how horrifying drowning is.

I’ve been curling up

to watch the bubbles rise,

limp with

my own weight,

hands over my ears

to block

the whispers of

“impossible” that

followed as I

drifted downward

fact by fact by fathom.

This morning, though,

I kicked,

convulsively.

I kicked

because someone

reminded me

that there’s still air up there,

and I’m not the only one

who’s tasted it.

I’m not the only one

who wants to breathe again.

Someone reminded me

how bright it is,

how clear,

how mesmerizing are the clouds

reflected in the wet

triumphant irises

of seekers who have fought

to get above.

Someone reminded me,

just by loudly being,

that it’s worth believing

in things

the drowning

cannot see;

that maybe it’s not foolish

to look for love in every pair of eyes;

maybe it’s not weak to cry

when someone offers up

a passing kindness;

maybe giving more than you have

doesn’t make you a doormat,

it makes you a saint;

maybe sacrificing for someone

who doesn’t care

is noble instead of pathetic;

maybe it isn’t odd, maybe

there’s something beautiful

about finding seven layers of epiphany

in a coat of cracked paint;

maybe a child’s voice really is

that

magnificent;

and maybe it matters –

God, maybe it actually matters

that we’re listening.

Someone,

without meaning to,

reminded me

that it’s not crazy

to kick toward the surface;

it’s crazy to think

there’s anything reasonable

sensible

logical

in breathing water

when there’s such a thing

as air.

There’s still air up there.

Remember?